


Don't You Know That It's Just You

by rocketpool



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Spoilers, because sometimes you hurt your characters, this story assumes YOU HAVE SEEN AVENGERS (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandt's been having a few odd guests lately. Ethan's starting to notice. Of course, it is, and isn't, exactly what it looks like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Know That It's Just You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucdarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/gifts).



> Because this has been tickling my muses since I saw MI: Ghost Protocol, and because things that happen in Avengers fit too perfectly. Also, because Luc asked nicely, and Nei is an evil enabler.
> 
> Thanks to Lisa and Sarah for the read through. You guys are the best.
> 
> REMEMBER: This fic assumes you've watched Avengers (2012). You've been warned.

They each have secrets. Ethan knows this. It’s the only way to stay sane in a world of lies, where your life is a job where you change your demeanor, your personhood, your very _face_ to get things done. You hold the truth, _your_ truth, to your chest and let no one else change it or define it.

The greatest form of trust between people in his line of work is sharing a truth, open and raw.

He’d done that for Brandt. It was a small truth, in some ways, but personal enough for both of them that it would mean something. _You didn’t let my wife die. You’re capable. You’re worth trusting._ It had been necessary for team morale (at least, that’s what Ethan was telling himself as he watched for her face in the crowd) so he hadn’t expected anything in return.

At least. Ethan hadn’t expected anything then. Not when he thought what Brandt was holding onto was _I let your wife die. I’m incapable._

Ethan’s starting to wonder, though.

  


The first time Ethan sees the redhead, he thinks nothing of it. They’ve all built the shells of lives here, enough not to be questioned in their downtime. Vacations are times when they can pretend to be normal, after all.

But then he sees her again, sitting with Brandt at a quiet sushi bar. They’re sitting close, legs touching, her hand on his knee. She says something that makes him smile, a small, quiet smile that Ethan has only seen once. (Then, Brandt had also seemed somewhat surprised that Ethan was still there each morning when he woke up. The smile was for breakfast.)

Ethan frowns. An ex?

Curiosity piqued, he casually makes his way into the restaurant. He keeps himself small, inconspicuous. Brandt has a sharp eye, but if Ethan plays his cards right, if he gets noticed it’ll just look like a coincidence that he was in the same place.

“— not my boyfriend,” Brandt says. He sounds a little annoyed, and the tips of his ears are blushing.

The redhead just hums, more an acknowledgment of the statement than disagreeing right out. “Y’know, I saw you in Bucharest.” She watches him, maybe as carefully as Ethan does. Brandt freezes. It’s just for a moment, something not many could even notice, and then Brandt clenches his jaw for just a second. “I just happened to be there, it wasn’t…”

Brandt turns toward her properly, which means Ethan can’t see his face anymore. If he says something, Ethan can’t hear it. (He should have gotten closer, dammit.) But the redhead obviously doesn’t like it, several emotions crossing through her face before she can make it blank again.

“Are you happy, at least?” she asks, voice stiff with the effort to sound neutral. Ethan thinks maybe for just a moment she looks sad.

Ethan turns away. He doesn’t want to watch Brandt lie.

  


If Ethan is considered shorter than most, then the burly blond man hugging Brandt (big arms wrapped around the man tight enough to lift him off the floor in the process) is almost inhumanly tall. Ethan feels like he should recognize him, maybe, but shrugs it off for the moment. The guy is big, but he’s jovial; hell, he’s happy enough that Ethan can feel the joy rolling off of him straight through the crowd.

Brandt looks more guarded, of course, but can’t seem to help the smile that cracks his face open. He lets the larger man put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him toward the diner on the corner not unlike an excited five-year-old. But Brandt must say something, because the big man falters, then nods, his exuberance dimmed.

Ethan doesn’t see Brandt again until the next day. Brandt is oddly punctual, walking through the door _precisely_ on time, and he looks both hung over and decently caffeinated. Ethan raises an eyebrow at him.

“What,” Brandt asks, glancing over at Benji and Carter as he makes room for himself next to Ethan. He's relaxed, casually invading Ethan's space from knee to hip. “I miss something good?” The kid’s got an amazing poker face. Or he’s sincerely oblivious. Or Ethan’s just being paranoid. Carter shakes her head, and shrugs, but Benji launches into an excited description about some gadget they’ve got for the mission.

Brandt looks amused, mostly. “Right. Well, as long as I don’t have to jump into any giant engines any time soon.”

Benji huffs. “That was just the once!”

  


Ethan’s not sure what wakes him, really. He thinks he can hear the television on in Brandt’s living room, and it draws him fully into consciousness. Brandt has been… restless… lately; something tugs at him in his sleep, enough to wake Ethan too, but whatever it is he keeps it to himself. For a moment Ethan considers enticing Brandt back to bed, maybe even back to sleep. At the very least they could exhaust each other.

Then he realizes that no, it’s a conversation he can hear. Brandt is talking _to_ someone.

“Yeah, Rogers mentioned seeing you. It sounded a little too cloak and dagger for me,” someone - a man - says, his voice tinny. It doesn’t sound like speaker phone. A video conference, maybe, with the electric glow Ethan can see reflected on the floor. “I’m not sure what I could possibly say that he didn’t but…” Brandt sighs, heavy and tired. “I know how you feel, what it’s like to, to _need_ to leave. I’ve been there, and it’s. Look. You take care of yourself, alright?” There’s a measured pause. “And you’re missed around here.”

That doesn’t have the ring of emotional attachment the words would tend to imply, and Ethan gets the feeling whoever this is is talking about someone else in particular. Ethan’s not sure how to process this information, to put his finger on what this means for his team. For him.

There’s more silence. Ethan pictures Brandt pinching the bridge of his nose, the same way he does when he’s woken from a nightmare. Then, “Yeah. Thanks.” His voice is cracked straight through.

When Brandt finally comes back to bed, Ethan pretends to be asleep.

  


“You should have told me, y’know,” Benji says, looking at his newspaper a little too hard. He’s getting better at being in the field, but waiting is hardly his strong suit. Ethan glances at him sideways as he takes another sip of his coffee, but only long enough for Benji to get the hint. They’re supposed to be watching the dead drop, after all, and then follow whoever uses it. “About—” Benji starts off too loudly, and corrects himself, stage whispering. “About Stark.”

Ethan blinks. “Stark?” he asks, genuinely confused. And maybe a little worried.

It’s Benji’s turn to glance at him sideways, frowning. “Yeah, Stark. Tony Stark.”

“The weapons manufacturer,” Ethan says, gesturing vaguely with his coffee cup, “cum, what, superhero?”

“Yes,” Benji says a little too emphatically, and he pops and folds the newspaper in a vain attempt to cover for it. Ethan sighs and shakes his head. He should have realized Benji would fall over himself for a public figure like Stark. “And just so you’re aware, the man’s also developed some of the best programing and robotics on the market. Straight or black.” Benji glances over at him again, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Stark Tech saved our sorry asses once or twice.”

“Alright, alright.” Ethan tries not to laugh, and doesn’t look away from the drop.

“In any case. You should have told me he was coming. And quite frankly I’m hurt that you put me in the field instead of in that meeting.”

Ethan holds very still. “Oh?” He has no idea whatsoever what Benji is talking about.

“I mean, I don’t know if you were teasing. Or thought I would, I don’t know. Fan boy all over him.” Benji clears his voice, because obviously had Ethan actually known what was going on, it would have been an issue. “But I’m the single most qualified member of this unit to discuss anything. Certainly I must be more qualified than _Brandt_ , at least.” He makes a sort of disappointed face. “Carter would make sense just because she… well Tony would… you know.” He goes back to looking at his paper.

“Maybe next time, Benj.” How he manages to say the words while sounding and looking completely neutral, like it’s merely the weather and not whatever it is that's bubbling with anxiety under his skin. …Well, it can probably be chalked up to all his years in the field. That’s sure as hell what keeps him in his seat, watching the dead drop, and not heading straight back and finding out just what the hell Brandt is doing.

  


It’s another day and a half before Ethan and Brandt are in the same place at the same time, without the rest of the unit around to interrupt them. Or that’s the plan, at least. The closest they get to a weekend is a lone Wednesday, and Ethan would normally count himself lucky if he got to the next morning without work making things all too brief. Of course, Ethan’s a bit more tightly wound this time.

It doesn’t help that Brandt’s door is already open. Maybe it’s another _friend_ come for a visit. Maybe Brandt is about to take out his recycling. Maybe there’s an assassin.

Ethan’s a little pissed at how close they are in likelihood, but that doesn’t stop him from crossing the threshold ready for the worst. Nothing looks disturbed in the kitchen, no signs of struggle in the front room, but Ethan strains to hear any other voices…

“You should just come in, Agent Hunt,” someone says from the living room, dispassionate in a way that marks him as a seasoned professional. There’s no malice, though, no subconscious leaning toward prepared violence.

As Ethan rounds the corner, still wary, to find Brandt sprawled on the couch in jeans and a t-shirt. “Really? This had to happen now?” Brandt drags a hand over his face, muffling a handful of expletives.

“It wasn’t intentional, if that’s what you’re implying,” the someone replies to Brandt, agitation hedging in on that professionalism. As Ethan finally takes another step into view, he can actually see the man. Immaculate black suit, maybe five-nine, arms crossed but stance at the ready.

“Agent Coulson.” It isn’t a question, but it might be a threat. Ethan had never met the man, but he’d seen plenty in briefings and knew plenty about his reputation. Things click into place, now — the people he’d seen with Brandt were all a part of that Avengers unit of SHIELD. “Are you trying to poach my man?”

Coulson looks nonplussed, jaw clenching ever so slightly as he raises an eyebrow at Brandt. Brandt, who blushes hard, covering his face with his hands. “Unfortunately, you’ve got it reversed,” Coulson says, that glossy professionalism back in place.

Ethan blinks. “Brandt?” he asks, looking at the man, watching him closely. He doesn’t miss the flinch. “Who are you?” His voice is a little tight, not least because he can see in Brandt’s body language that whatever it is that Coulson is talking about, Ethan’s trust had not been misplaced. Brandt hadn’t been mole, whatever else he was.

“Barton.” He visibly deflates, and sounds so exhausted. “I’m Clint Barton.” The words sound strange coming out of his mouth, but they also sound true, in a way that only people used to interrogations, to filtering through layers of lies can begin to notice.

“He is still currently listed as a SHIELD agent, code name Hawkeye.” Coulson looks over at Ethan, then back to Bra— Barton. Ethan wonders what Coulson's take on the situation is, what was and wasn’t said before Ethan showed up. “You have a choice to make, Barton,” he says. His voice is gentler, with a hint of something Ethan can’t put his finger on.

Barton doesn’t look at either of them. “I need some time.”

Something tightens in Coulson’s shoulders. “I trust this time you won’t keep either of us waiting.” He makes his way out of the apartment, nodding to Ethan as he passes with a clinical “Agent Hunt.”

”Coulson.” Ethan lingers a moment longer, but Barton has nothing else to say, apparently. So he leaves, swallowing his accusations with his questions.

  


Ethan kills the next few hours doing what he does best — intelligence work. It takes some digging, and calling in favors, but he gets his hands on the SHIELD personnel file for one Clint Barton. If it had been a physical document, it would have been thick with papers. The man hadn’t been an aborted field agent cum paper jockey; he’d been one of the best snipers in the business, one of SHIELD’s top agents, on the short list for the elite unit which had eventually become the Avengers.

It doesn’t make sense until he hits the cluster of special notations, flagged in red.

> Agent Barton was controlled by Loki, utilizing the Tesseract. While it has been impossible to study and fully evaluate the effects of the Tesseract interacting with and possessing human consciousnesses, it is the opinion of the Director and all assigned expert personnel [CR 13-334-5 subsection 2D] that Barton would have been incapable of resisting Loki’s commands in this state, and thus cannot be held accountable for his actions.
> 
> His actions against SHIELD were devastatingly effective, resulting in the deaths of some fifteen Hellicarrier personnel and the injury of thirty more. Therefore it is our recommendation that while Agent Barton may return to active duty after all due course of psychological evaluation as delineated by SHIELD SOP, he should also be observed for any lingering or potentially reactivated affects of the Tesseract unit.

Ethan stares at the words, sorting through his sudden sense of context. If he felt any sense of betrayal before... well.

He knows in his gut what he’s going to find before he gets there, but he can’t seem to help heading to Barton’s apartment. The sun is setting to his right, cutting through the buildings and casting long shadows as he drives, swallowed in the end of rush hour traffic. He jogs up the steps to find the door propped open, wider, much wider than before.

The apartment is empty. Not just empty. It’s as though there’s been a cleaning crew. There’s no furniture, no dust, no scraps of paper or garbage or dirty dishes. There’s no spare sheets in the top of the hall closet, crammed to fit, no soap on the window sill in the shower of the master bathroom. There’s a pair of keys on the kitchen counter. The place looks like it’s ready to be shown to new residents.

There is a note. It’s taped to the wall beside the door so Ethan doesn’t see it until he’s about to leave. _I’m sorry. Tell Benj and Carter it was a genuine pleasure._

Ethan folds it neatly, tucking it into his pocket. He steps outside, takes a deep breath, and watches the sun slip under the horizon.


End file.
